


your love, burning constellations

by sadwhales



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 10, Summer, so sweet it's straight up disgusting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25343371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadwhales/pseuds/sadwhales
Summary: There's that one perfect summer day. Ian and Mickey, against all odds, get to have it.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 52
Kudos: 363





	your love, burning constellations

**Author's Note:**

> Ngl this is complete nonsense I wrote to cheer myself up, but. Please can we just let Ian&Mickey be happy and horny and in love?

The bedroom is drenched in golden light when Ian stirs. He rarely sleeps past eight, and in the summer, he’s up even earlier because of the heat. Right now, it can’t be much past seven.

His limbs feel pleasantly loose, body relaxed. It’s damn hot, though. Even as he’s clad in nothing but boxers, his neck, as well as the small of his back, are sticky with sweat.

The heat is inevitable when you live in a house where the air conditioning never fucking works. It’s also inevitable when you refuse to sleep through the night without having the entire length of your body pressed against your husband’s back.

Ian has his arm curled around Mickey’s middle, and the slow, steady rise-fall of his chest tells Ian he’s still sound asleep. He’ll wake the second Ian starts getting up, but usually he has no trouble going back to sleep after. Ian doesn’t mind rising early, he still likes jogging first thing in the morning, and the routine calms him down. Mickey tends to sleep in. When Ian goes, Mickey will kiss him goodbye with his eyes barely open and burrow back into the blankets to get a few more hours of shut-eye.

Ian smiles, inches closer, presses his nose into Mickey’s neck. His hair is a little damp with sweat, but Ian doesn’t really mind. They’re sweaty together often enough.

There’s a discernible moment when Mickey starts to wake. His breathing shifts just slightly, a small huff of air through his nose. Almost immediately, he presses back against Ian a bit, an instinctive reaction.

Ian runs his palm over his stomach, back and forth, until Mickey’s conscious enough to find Ian’s hand with his own, slot them together. They’re the ones with the rings, which clink against each other when their fingers interlace.

“Mornin’”, Mickey says, voice raspy, squeezes Ian’s hand.

Ian presses a kiss behind Mickey’s ear. “Morning.”

Mickey shifts languidly, cranes his neck until he’s able to find Ian’s lips. He’s sleep-soft, squinting at the brightness.

They kiss once, twice, nothing more than uncoordinated little pecks. Mickey’s nose bumps against Ian’s cheekbone as he touches his lips on the corner of Ian’s mouth. This is what Mickey wants to do first thing in the morning, not even properly awake yet; kiss Ian. He wonders if there will ever be a day when that ceases to amaze him, to make his ribcage tight with joy.

“Time is it?” the words are murmured into Ian’s mouth.

Ian hums, reaches blindly towards the bedside table to grab his phone. “Seven thirty-four.”

Mickey groans, eyes falling shut again. “Fucking…you going?”

“Yeah. Can’t go back to sleep anymore.”

Sometimes Ian lingers, tangles their legs together and buries his face into the crook of Mickey’s neck, inhales him, lets him run his fingers through Ian’s hair until Ian’s energized and ready to face the day. Sometimes he presses Mickey into the sheets and pulls his boxers halfway down his thighs, bites sharply at Mickey’s shoulder, fucks him slow and deep until they’re both shivering.

Usually, though, he tries to move as soon as possible after waking up. Out of bed, glass of water, medication, exercise. It keeps his mind clear, body alert.

Nowadays, he often exits his post-run shower to hear the clattering of pots and smell the breakfast cooking in the kitchen. Mickey tells him he’s not a goddamn housewife, and very pointedly doesn’t cook for anyone else; only Ian gets a fresh, golden-yellow omelette shoved in front of him when he sits down at the kitchen table. Sometimes, though, there’ll be a plate of “leftover” banana pancakes waiting for Liam.

Despite openly encouraging Ian’s routine, Mickey always complains in the mornings. If not with words, then with a pout he refuses to admit is a pout.

“It’s hot as balls”, Mickey wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. “How’re you running in this weather?”

“I’ll do a shorter one today, if it’s too hot.”

Mickey makes a sound of acknowledgement. Ian can’t let go quite yet. He mouths at the exposed skin of Mickey’s neck, shoulders. Neither of them tans very well, but Ian’s freckles are more pronounced and there’s more of them. The sun has even brought out a light smattering of spots along Mickey’s nose and upper arms. It’s beautiful.

“Could come back to bed after”, Mickey’s tone is suggestive, and he emphasizes the proposition by grazing his teeth lightly along Ian’s jawline.

Ian laughs, even when it sends shivers down his spine. “Oh, so too hot for exercise but not too hot for _exercise_?”

_Maybe, and?_ Mickey’s expression says.

“Sorry”, Ian says. “Can’t. Lip’s making a last-minute run to the store to get food for the barbecue. I promised I’d help him out. Said I’d watch the kids with Debbie later.”

There’s the pout again. Ian grins.

Without warning, he swings a leg over Mickey, rolls them over, Mickey on his stomach and Ian on top of him, keeping his body pinned tight between his knees.

“I’ll make it up for you later?” Ian leans down to press his forehead between Mickey’s shoulder blades, kiss the knobs of his spine.

Mickey grumbles some more but doesn’t physically protest. “You better.”

Ian hums in agreement, smooths his hands down Mickey’s back, all the way down to the perfect slope of his ass. He dips his fingers just below the waistband.

Mickey squirms. “Ey, none of that shit. Either get your dick in my ass or fuck off. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Never”, Ian smiles and squeezes gently.

“Fuck you, Gallagher”, Mickey says, but it’s not very convincing, seeing as it is accompanied by a pleased huff of a laugh.

“Mmh. Could fuck _you_ later, _Gallagher_ ”, Ian drops one more kiss in his husband’s hair. “Not now though.” He climbs off Mickey, out of the bed. “Got to go.”

Mickey lets him, folds his arms under the pillow and watches, eyes half-closed as Ian tugs his running shorts on.

It _is_ entirely too hot, and the shower Ian takes barely serves to cool him down.

When he and Lip come home from the store, Lip heads inside to put the groceries away, and Ian wanders into the backyard. The sun is beating down even harder than it did in the morning, and the grass burns the bottoms of Ian’s feet when he kicks off his shoes.

Debbie has set up a little inflatable pool, filled it with water for Franny and Liam to play in. The kids don’t seem to mind the heat; Franny is giggling, splashing the water around with all her might. Liam is mostly just sitting in the shallow water, trying to make his niece laugh harder.

Debbie herself is sitting a little on the side on a white plastic chair, dressed in a mint green bikini and a wide-brimmed sun hat, fiddling with her phone. Next to her, in a shadowy spot, Freddie is napping in his stroller.

When Ian comes into view, Debbie and Liam wave, and Franny scrambles up, nearly tripping on the rim of the pool in her hurry to get a hug. She’s dripping water all over Ian, but he doesn’t mind that much; the sun will dry it all up in a minute.

“Hey”, Ian smiles and hoists her up.

When she climbs back into the water, Ian gets another lawn chair and sets it up next to the pool, soaks in the sun and lets Franny splash more water on his legs.

After a while, Lip comes outside to get Freddie, who’s slowly waking up, probably hungry. He bounces the baby in his arms, presses the chubby cheek against his own. Ian watches them go, so happy, but a weird twisting in his chest.

Franny gets bored of playing in the water and Liam fetches them both popsicles from the freezer. They sit on the grass, in the shadow of the house to eat as quickly as they can. The sun doesn’t let up, though, and soon both of their faces and hands are sticky and red-stained.

Ian’s stuck his bare feet into the pool. The water isn’t much colder than the air, and he wishes he had something to cool him down, as well. His hairline and his neck are dripping with sweat, and his thighs are sticking grossly to the plastic. Even the bridge of his nose, the spot where his sunglasses are perched on his face, feels slick and disgusting, but his body is too lethargic to move. Insects are buzzing around the yard, the monotone sound filling his ears.

In the distance, somewhere in the back of Ian’s brain, he hears the door click open. He doesn’t really register it until he hears his own name.

He cranes his neck to look. It’s Mickey, in a black, sleeveless shirt and dark green shorts. Ian bought him this particular pair, and his reasons weren’t entirely altruistic; they’re stylish and snug in all the right places, and Ian isn’t sorry at all for appreciating them at every opportunity.

“You’re gonna be out here for much longer you’ll turn into a goddamn lobster”, Mickey frowns as he’s coming down the steps.

He throws a bottle of something at Ian, and Ian scrambles to catch it, his loose body working to keep up. It’s sunscreen, he realizes when it tumbles into his lap.

Ian grins. Mickey doesn’t go back inside, but stalks across the lawn towards him.

“I’m not listening to you cry about it when your skin starts peeling off, so.”

“Will you do my back?” Ian waves the bottle in front of him when Mickey reaches his chair, waggles his eyebrows.

“Mmh. I’d love to”, Mickey leans over him, grinning as well. In the distance, Debbie makes a gagging sound.

It doesn’t stop Ian from putting his hands on Mickey’s hips, from pulling him closer. He wants to get him all the way into his lap, onto the rickety lawn chair with him, but they’ll have to keep it PG. There are children and siblings present, after all.

Mickey slides Ian’s sunglasses up onto his forehead, kisses the space between Ian’s eyes. Despite the heat, Ian wants him closer, closer. Sometimes he’ll think about the way Mickey does these small things now, little gestures of affection, without even considering it twice. He doesn’t care about Ian’s family seeing them. Sometimes Ian will think about it, and he has to stop, because it’s such an enormously tender thing to think about.

Instead of thinking, he closes his eyes for a few seconds and wraps his arms entirely around Mickey, rests his cheek against the soft stomach. He breathes, and everything is good and warm.

Then he hauls Mickey up and throws him ass-first into the inflatable pool.

Mickey _shrieks_ , a noise of horror and indignation, and Ian stumbles after him, losing his own balance as well.

He ends up half-in, half-out of the pool, kneeling on the grass but hands submerged. Mickey’s sitting there, legs dangling over the edge, his shorts and shirt absolutely soaked through already, Ian between his knees.

Mickey’s looking at him like he’s about five seconds away from murder, and Ian laughs so goddamn hard tears are threatening to spill from his eyes. He laughs until Mickey has him in a headlock, trying to pull him into the water too. He laughs when Mickey wrestles him onto the grass, pulls his hair hard. He laughs when Mickey has him pinned to the ground, knees clenched too tight against Ian’s sides to keep him from escaping, and wrings the water from his wet shirt right onto Ian’s face.

“Can you go a day without trying to send each other to the hospital?” Debbie calls out from her lawn chair.

She gets no answer, but Franny gets excited at the concept of a wrestling match and does her best to join in. Eventually, when Ian’s sunglasses have been knocked off of his head, when both he and Mickey are wet, grass-stained, and significantly sweatier than before, they give up and settle for lying on the ground, breathing hard. Ian scoops Franny back into his arms and Mickey doesn’t get mad at all about the sticky, strawberry-flavored fingerprints on his cheeks.

Franny tires herself out soon and Debbie takes her inside. Mickey goes as well, grumbling that he needs to _wash this shit off before my face starts attracting bees_.

Ian stays behind to empty the pool and leave it in the sun to dry. It doesn’t take long, and he can hear Mickey in the upstairs bathroom when he’s climbing the stairs. Ian slips inside, locking the door behind him and cornering Mickey at the sink where he’s splashing his face with water.

Ian grabs a towel from the rack because he knows Mickey never bothers, just wipes his face on his shirt, which, at the moment, is all stained and soaked through. Then, before Mickey has the chance to turn around, Ian presses him against the sink, chest to back, hands settling onto his hips.

Mickey meets his eye in the mirror, wrinkles his nose. “You’re all fucking wet.”

“Right back at you”, Ian says but doesn’t step away. Instead, he holds Mickey tighter, rocks lightly against his ass. “Better get out of these clothes, don’t you think?”

Mickey looks unimpressed by Ian still using lame pick-up lines but doesn’t protest.

“And I’m pretty sure I promised to make it up to you”, Ian continues, voice low, mouth grazing Mickey’s ear.

He rolls his hips again, hard and deliberate, and it punches a little gasp out of Mickey, makes his body relax under Ian’s hands. His head drops between his shoulders when Ian gets his pants open, peels the wet fabric off him, pulls it down enough to wrap a hand around his cock.

“Shit, yeah, Ian.”

And it’s good, of course it is, even though it’s hot and their clothes are clinging to their skin. Ian can’t keep his eyes from the mirror, from Mickey’s face, because it’s fucking mesmerizing, his pink mouth, the little frown of pleasure, the last drops of water on his temples.

They won’t draw it out, because the location is not ideal, but it’s fun, a little bit filthy. Mickey’s biting down on his lip to keep from making noise, but his harsh breaths let Ian know he’s close. He grips Mickey’s hip tighter. Mickey reaches back to grab Ian’s ass, encourage him to roll his hips harder. Ian does, moving like he’s fucking Mickey and biting at his neck, the spot Ian knows he loves.

As soon as he comes, Mickey shoves Ian back, spins around and tugs him into a kiss. Something clatters to the floor, and if there’s someone outside the door, they’ll definitely know what’s going on. Right now, Ian doesn’t give a shit, because Mickey’s yanking his shorts down to his thighs and pulling his hair hard and fucking devouring his mouth.

Ian grips the sink, white-knuckled, to keep his balance as Mickey jerks him off. It’s not going to take long; he’s all keyed up from watching Mickey, from grinding against his ass.

He comes with a stuttering moan. Mickey slows down but doesn’t let up until Ian’s shaking, unsure if it’s his orgasm or the heat making him light-headed. Mickey kisses his upper lip, the corner of his mouth, keeping at it until their breathing has settled and Ian pulls away.

“You are the fucking _worst_ at keeping quiet”, Mickey says, even as he looks pleased, breathy and flushed. “Your family’s gonna shame us.”

Ian laughs. He’s not bothered. “Like other people haven’t had sex in this bathroom.”

Mickey makes a face. “Thanks for that mental image.”

Washing up doesn’t do much; they’re gross, sweaty, and look like they’ve been doing exactly what they’ve been doing. But when they’re sneaking out of the bathroom to peel off their disgusting clothes, laughing about it like a couple of teenagers, Ian feels way too good to care.

When the sun finally sets, the backyard grows loud and bright-colored, chatter mixing with blaring music. Someone has taken the time to set up multiple strings of cheap fairy-lights around the yard, all the way from the porch-railing to the rickety table piled with six-packs and paper plates. Ian suspects it to be a joint effort by Tami and Debbie; Franny loves the loud colors and spends the better half of the evening staring in wonder as the lights change from purple to green.

In record time, the lawn is scattered with people; the whole family, along with their friends and some already drunk neighbors who turn up in search of free booze and burgers. At least Frank’s not there.

Lip finds Ian right away, sits next to him in the grass, carrying Freddie as usual. Ian supposes it makes sense for him to take care of Freddie, since he can’t do much partying anyway. But Ian gets the feeling Lip still tends to feel safer when he doesn’t let his son out of his sight for too long.

They toast with ice-cold cans of Coke, Freddie tucked safely into the space between Lip’s crossed legs. The baby is wearing a pair of those huge, noise-cancelling headphones. Ian finds the sight equally adorable and hilarious.

“Imagine if someone had cared enough about us to protect our ears?” Ian says, half-joking, touching the light curls on top of Freddie’s round head.

Lip smiles ruefully. “Yeah. Headphones, that definitely should have been a priority when we were kids. Not, say, putting enough food on the table or not blowing the money on drugs.”

Ian shakes his head. Shitty childhood is a shitty childhood, ask anyone around here. Regardless, it’s difficult for him to feel too bad. When, most of the time, the present seems like a pretty damn good deal, worrying about the past feels pointless.

Eventually the kids, all except Liam, go to bed, but the party is still in full swing. Nearly everyone is well on their way to being spectacularly drunk. Ian isn’t, which sucks a lot less since Lip is right there with him.

And if one thing makes it worth it to be stone-cold sober at a Gallagher party, Ian thinks, it’s absolutely watching his husband loosen up a little more after every beer he chugs down.

It’s not often that Mickey relaxes enough to truly let his guard down, and when he does, it’s usually alone with Ian; late at night, when they’re both exhausted and tucked under the covers, or in the soft hours of the morning.

It’s when Mickey asks for affection by tugging Ian’s arms tighter around him, tipping his head back, inviting Ian to put his mouth on his neck. It’s when Ian’s inside him, moving slow, slow, and Mickey stares up at him in open adoration, curls his fingers around Ian’s bicep.

Now Mickey’s more than a little tipsy, happy and relaxed, and it’s delightful enough that Ian almost forgets to be sorry about not drinking.

“Hey, you need another?” Mickey asks, just a bit too loud even for the noisy party, and presses something cold and metallic against the back of Ian’s neck.

Ian flinches away reflexively. “Jesus.”

Mickey sits down on the grass, laughing, sort of unsteady. Ian punches his thigh gently but takes the offered Coke anyway.

Mickey shuffles closer so that their legs are pressed together from hip to knee. He seems to take up more space when he’s drunk, and he’s always pretty eager to share as much as possible with Ian. It isn’t meant to be sweet, but it is.

“Where have you been?” Ian murmurs, squeezes Mickey’s knee.

“Just over there”, Mickey sets an unopened can of beer down on the ground. Ian has no idea how many he’s had, and Mickey’s probably lost count as well. “Swear your brother’s gonna burn the house down if we leave him alone for five seconds.”

Ian cranes his neck to see Carl manning the grill with unmatched enthusiasm, and Kev standing close by, looking ready to intervene the moment something catches fire. Carl seems to be handling it but considering that Ian caught him filling a Super Soaker with booze just a couple of hours earlier, it can’t be a bad idea to keep an eye on him.

“Think you’d do a better job?”

“Sure as fuck do”, Mickey says with all the confidence of someone who’s maybe had one too many.

The thing is, Mickey actually is a decent cook, and Ian suspects he might even enjoy spending time in the kitchen, but masks it excellently by complaining at every opportunity.

“Lucky me”, Ian nudges Mickey with his shoulder. “My husband is skilled in the kitchen _and_ the bedroom.”

Mickey snorts, leans closer to brush his lips to Ian’s. “Knew you married me just ‘cause I fry bacon like a pro.”

“Mm, that’s exactly why I married you”, Ian smiles, kisses his beer-sticky mouth. “No other reason.”

When Mickey pulls back, he’s all flirty smirks and crinkled eyes. His thumb lingers on Ian’s cheek, impossibly rough and gentle at the same time. His face is illuminated by the stupid fairy lights, his nose, forehead, jawline painted bright purples and pinks.

Then, looking like he’s remembering something important, Mickey turns to pick up his beer can and pulls out a pocketknife.

“Shotgun?” he clinks the can against Ian’s Coke.

It’s so familiar, so full of memories both good and bad, that Ian can’t help but hold his breath, only for a few seconds.

Mickey looks at him, steady and sure and he _knows_. He punches a hole into the metal and hands over the knife.

And when they’re downing their drinks as fast as they can, jostling each other until their chins and the fronts of their shirts are soaked, Ian laughing hard enough that soda comes out of his nose.

When they kiss again after, right there in the backyard in front of everyone, drinks mixing on their tongues, Ian thinks there’s definitely more good than there is bad.

It’s nearly two in the morning when they stumble inside. Ian is exhausted from the heat, from the long day, and he wants nothing more than to crawl into bed. Mickey is wasted, arm thrown over Ian’s shoulder and supporting roughly one third of his own bodyweight while leaving the rest to Ian.

They’re being unnecessarily loud, maybe, judging by the look Lip shoots them when Ian kicks the door shut; he’s walking back and forth in the kitchen, bouncing a restless Freddie in his arms.

“Sorry”, Ian half-whispers.

“Oh”, Lip says, taking in the state of Mickey. “Looks like we might both get puked on tonight.”

Mickey flips him off. “Suck a dick.”

“I appreciate the offer, but no thanks.”

“Hey, that dick is off the market”, Ian drops a soft kiss into Mickey’s hair. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“Yes, please, get your dick-talk away from my child”, Lip cups Freddie’s head protectively.

It’s Ian’s turn to give the middle finger before taking on the task of dragging his husband upstairs. Slowly, because there’s the very real risk of them tumbling down the stairs and waking everyone. They might be waking everyone anyway; when Mickey’s happy-drunk, it’s physically impossible for him to be quiet, and Ian has to keep shushing him while simultaneously trying to contain his own laughter.

When he finally gets them through their bedroom door, Mickey collapses onto the bed immediately, leaving Ian to pull off his shoes, his socks, his jeans. He tosses everything on the floor, looks up to see Mickey peering at him, the dumbest smile on his face.

“C’mere”, Mickey demands. He sounds flirty, but also like he’s halfway to falling asleep, which makes it considerably less effective.

“I’ll get you a glass of water first”, Ian stands up. “You think you’re gonna be sick?”

Mickey shakes his head, throwing an arm over his face. He’s still in the exact same position when Ian comes back, and for a moment, Ian thinks he’s asleep. The mattress dipping as Ian climbs onto it makes him stir.

At Ian’s prodding, Mickey heaves himself into a sitting position to down the glass of water. Ian is about to get up again to refill it in the bathroom, but Mickey pushes the glass onto the bedside table, out of Ian’s reach.

“You’ll be feeling it tomorrow”, Ian warns.

“Don’t care”, Mickey flops onto his back, grabs a fistful of Ian’s t-shirt. “Stay.”

And that right there makes Ian warmer that every sweltering day of the summer combined, a real, bone-deep glow like someone’s lit a thousand little suns inside him.

“Yeah, okay, Mick.”

They pull off their soda- and beer-stained shirts, Ian kicks off the rest of his clothes and lays down on top of the covers. Mickey’s pressed to his side in an instant, leg thrown over Ian’s and mouth hot on his neck.

He can still hear the muffled sounds of the party outside. Beyond that is the constant noise of the neighborhood, the muted hum of the Chicago night. The quiet that matters is inside the room, in their own space, private and untouchable and safe. It’s for him and Mickey, and no one else to hear.

Mickey’s kisses are unhurried and sloppy, his hand mapping Ian’s skin from his navel to his collarbones. The room is dark, but the window throws a pale rectangle of light over their bodies, and Ian watches Mickey’s fingers against his abdomen with heavy eyes. They’re both on the verge of falling asleep, but eager to hold on just a little bit longer.

Suddenly Mickey’s reaching for Ian’s hand, pulling it to rest on his stomach as well.

“You got freckles on your hands”, Mickey says, smooths his thumb over the bump of bone on Ian’s wrist. He sounds overwhelmed about it. “Fucking love your freckles.”

Ian laughs and threads the fingers of his other hand through Mickey’s hair, but apparently Mickey isn’t done.

“ _Ian_ , you’re so-” he pauses, presses his face tight against Ian’s shoulder. “Why are you so _good_?”

It makes Ian squeeze Mickey tighter, makes his eyes burn distantly, _Jesus Christ_ , it’s the exhaustion making him emotional. His husband is a silly drunk, and it’s kind of funny, but it’s also heart-wrenchingly honest. Mickey’s not the most poetic guy in the world, but there’s never empty praise with him when it comes to affection. It manages to punch Ian right in the chest sometimes, how small, simple words and touches can make him feel so incredibly _loved_. How people survive without this, he doesn’t know.

“You’re not so bad yourself”, Ian whispers.

Mickey shakes his head. “No, listen. You’re _gorgeous_ , and I gotta _blow_ you. Right fucking now.”

Just like that, the raw emotion makes way to a burst of laughter. “Right now?”

“Mm-hmm”, Mickey confirms. “Stop fucking _laughing_.”

Ian presses a fist to his lips. Mickey’s too drunk to even _find_ his dick. “I’m not laughing.”

“Good”, Mickey’s mouth finds his neck again.

A warm, open-lipped kiss, a swipe of tongue. It feels good, soothing, even if Ian’s too tired to even consider getting aroused. Ian closes his eyes, turns his head a bit so that Mickey’s hair tickles his cheek, breathes him in.

“Don’t wanna do shit tomorrow”, Mickey slurs in between kisses. “Fuck this heat. Wanna do this with you all fucking day.”

Ian makes a noncommittal sound. His head is getting heavy, thoughts floating pleasantly and without direction.

It doesn’t take long until the kisses slow down, then stop. Mickey mumbles something unintelligible against Ian’s skin, and then he’s quiet for a long minute. Ian cracks an eye open, and yep. Mickey’s out like a light.

“Love you too”, Ian breathes, drifting, drifting, drifting.

Outside, the party has quieted down. It’s summer, sticky and hot and bright. Ian falls asleep to the sound of soft breathing and the smell of sweat mixed with coconut shampoo.


End file.
